Oh, Ancestors. Oh no.
I sucked in a breath. Another. Too fast. I was going to start hyperventilating. I could not do that here, could not fall apart in front of all of these terrestrials. I had to be the Queen. They knew who I was, even if he did not.Oh, Arran. Ancestors fucking hell…
Elayne grabbed my arm.
But she spoke to Arran.
“We will speak privately. There is much to apprise you of, son.” She did not call him Majesty. Did not reference his title. Because if he did not remember me… did he remember that he was the High King of Annwyn?
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
The Offering, the Tower of Myda, the Void Prophecy… even the succubus? How was I supposed to face all of it alone? Without Arran… with Arran, but alone still? This was worse than death, this was—
No.
Not worse than death.
Pant and Arran were walking now, exchanging words I could not hear over the roar in my own ears and the sounds of the Yuletide celebrations resuming. If no one was going to die, the terrestrials weren’t overly interested. I’d never been more thankful for their base brutality.
The Lord of Eilean Gayl steered his son out of the great hall, down a corridor I had not yet explored. Elayne kept her grip on my arm. Later, I’d be grateful for her steady guidance. Then, I could not process any of it.
I saw the flash of white in the corner of my vision. Tiny, hovering near the door, bright white eyes dashing to and fro. My mouth opened and closed like a fish, trying to acknowledge Isolde. She’d brought him here, to me. Watched over him and gotten him here safe and whole. I owed her everything, but I could not form words. Lyrena spoke, but it was muffled, like hearing underwater. I was vaguely aware of a flash of white. Movement, as Isolde fell in line with my Knight.
Elayne and Pant guided us to a comfortably appointed room at the end of the corridor. Thick carpets, lush hangings, heavily stuffed furniture. There was a book left here, a sewing basket there. Private quarters of some kind.
Much smaller than the great hall and left unheated. No one had planned for it to be in use tonight. Lyrena lit the braziers in the walls with a flick of her wrist. A fire raged to life in the hearth. She lingered at my side, Percival nowhere to be seen. I could not bring myself to care if he was alive, escaped, or dead on the floor with the terrestrials.
Arran’s eyes flared at Lyrena’s fire, marking us for what we were—elementals.
Deceptive, self-serving elementals. That was what he’d thought of us when he arrived in Baylaur. What was worse… it had been true.
“I do not need to be managed,” Arran said sharply, loud enough that Pant blanched.
Elayne, standing between us once again, was steady as always. “You certainly do not,” she agreed. “Out. Everyone, out.”
Pant followed her without question. Lyrena did not move from my side, Isolde behind us at the door. What reaction she would garner from the residents of Eilean Gayl, what Arran had made of her upon waking… I’d sort through that later. Deal with itlater.
“Go,” I said softly to my golden knight, knowing she would never leave my side otherwise. Percival be damned. She opened her mouth to protest, staring daggers at Arran. He looked her up and down and then dismissed her with the ease of someone who knows their own strength. The Brutal Prince.
“He will not hurt me,” I said, knowing that he heard the words as well. Nothing I could do about that—nor that I wanted to. Anything, to trigger his memory.Anything, Ancestors, please. I will do anything.
I’d said I would never beseech the Ancestors again. Wrong. All it took was true desperation.
Lyrena was not convinced. She gave me a pointed look before retreating to the door. “Use your power.”If you need to get away.
Arran and I had hated each other once. But never… he would never hurt me. He couldn’t. That bond in his chest would shred his heart before he could bring me harm.
At least, intentional harm.
I’d done plenty of damage without meaning to.
Is this my fault?
My eyes stung. No, no, no. I could not allow myself to cry. Not now. Not yet.
The door fit snugly into the archway behind us, and then Arran and I were alone.
For several long seconds, I just stared at him, cataloging every feature. His boots were dirty from traveling; so were his woolen vest and leather trousers. His shirt was fastened all the way to his throat, hiding the expansive tattoo of his Talisman splayed across his chest. But there was the stubble on his chin that he never quite managed to keep at bay. The sharp cut of his cheekbones, precisely the same. He fingered the head of his axe as he returned my stare, as I’d seen him do a hundred times when appraising an enemy.
